The Undertaker's Apprentice
by Dark Akuma Hunter
Summary: [HIATUS - UNDERGOING INTENSIVE REVISION] 1989. A field trip. A rift spike. Wrong place, wrong time. In the blink of an eye, Harry Potter was gone. 1981, Undertaker and his watcher, Harrison, are given a mission. Eradicate the one known as Voldemort. 1991, the two worlds meet for the first time.
1. Mission Start

**A/N 2017: Hey there new readers! Before you get too comfy here I figured I should give a heads up on how I'm planning to completely overhaul this fic at some point. The premise is basically the same but even just what I have written at the moment (just a bit of the second chapter really [the first chapter is _the worst_ kind of content for me to write so that'll probably be the last thing I get around to]) it's going to be a markedly different story in a lot of ways. In that vein I won't be updating this story again until I've finished 8 chapters of rewrite, and when I have they will be directly replacing the current story here. Since it's going to be so different, you're perfectly welcome to PM me for a copy of the original if you want the nostalgia factor, otherwise just keep that in mind as you read and be prepared to start over from the beginning once it starts updating again. Also, i****f you want to keep up with progress updates and all the woes of writing you can follow my blog .com**

**Chapter One – Mission Start:**

England had changed a lot during Harrison's life, but it was finally just as he remembered it.

Manicured lawns, suburban housing, the works.

It was 1991, and their mission could finally get underway after ten years lying in wait.

**oOoOo**

The small Funeral Home Undertaker had set up received very few visitors. It was a shady place, after all, just the way the two Shinigami liked it, and the lack of business meant it would be easy to leave. They were only passing the time, after all.

And with the strange visitor currently standing in the centre of the room, the time might just have arrived at last.

"Tell me something," Harrison cooed, draped across the back of an anatomical dummy in a darkened corner of the store. "Why are you in an _Undertaker's_ Establishment?"

One of the standing coffins shook slightly, faint laughter emanating from it, and Harrison grinned broadly beneath his hair. Their visitor looked more than just a little uncomfortable. His attire was not unlike the dramatic robe Undertaker had only recently been convinced to cease wearing, though it was subtly more modern, and more subdued.

His lips raised partway between snarl and sneer, but managed to keep most of his obvious distaste out of his drawling voice as he spoke. "I came here seeking one Harry Potter," he snapped, "though I clearly must have been given the wrong address."

The temperature in the parlour dropped dramatically. Harrison pulled the plastic liver from the torso, turning it this way and that. Yellow-green eyes stared intently from the dark.

"You are mistaken," Undertaker announced, emerging from his coffin without the usual flare and dramatics. He pushed his long hair away from his eyes, exposing the elaborate scarring and the unusually serious expression he wore. Harrison dropped the liver to the floor, no longer interested, and silently stepped into his mentor's shadow.

"Mistaken on what account, _sir?_"

"You are mistaken," Undertaker repeated, "on both accounts, Severus Snape."

The man – Severus Snape – visibly bristled at the use of his name. Immediately his stance shifted from disgust to suspicion. To a human it certainly seemed a suspicious feat, but for a Shinigami, the names of the living – and of the dead – were easy to discern. His especially, after the task they had been assigned just shy of ten years ago.

"I must admit to being curious," Harrison intoned, "as to how you tracked that name here. _Professor._" He added the title as a flippant afterthought, carefully studying every move Snape made.

"Explain yourselves!" Snape demanded instead, pulling a polished stick from an inner pocket and brandishing it in their direction.

Clicking his tongue loudly in displeasure, Harrison pulled a deceptively slim notebook from the front pocket of his suit jacket. Opening it to a page at random, he ran his finger down the details of the man's life.

"Let's see here," he muttered. "Severus Tobias Snape. More near-death experiences than a man your age should have, but considering the state of your world it's not so surprising."

Undertaker plucked the notebook from his fingers and slipped it back into Harrison's pocket, knowing it was better protected there than anywhere else. And there was never much of an indication as to how someone would react when faced with someone having that sort of knowledge on them.

"What would you know of it?"

"What do we know? More than you would like us to." Harrison's yellow-green eyes peered over the top of his glasses, eyeing Snape with an unreadable expression. "But we understand very little of it, and care only as much as we must."

Undertaker placed his hand firmly on Harrison's shoulder for a moment, a silent conversation taking place as identical eyes met, before he slipped out into the darkened back room.

"Who are you people?"

"I'm not sure I should tell you," Harrison mused. Snape was wary and confused; his stick – a wand, supposedly – was pointed vaguely at Harrison's feet. "But, firstly, I believe I would like to read my letter. If you would?" He held his hand out, perfectly aware that Undertaker was hovering just out of sight. He'd gone to fetch his death scythe, on the off-chance something happened.

Snape's dark eyes narrowed. "I never mentioned a letter."

"Perhaps not, but that _is_ why you're here, no?"

He silently debated the merits of denying the fact, and decided getting answers was of more dire importance.

"Indeed," he allowed reluctantly, "but the letter is for Harry Potter." Harrison nodded understandingly and wiggled his fingers, coaxing. Snape arched an eyebrow. "You are not Harry Potter."

"Says who?" Harrison protested, calm as anything.

"Harry Potter is a boy of almost eleven. You most clearly are not."

"Jeez," Harrison sighed, dropping his arm and clasping his hands loosely behind his back. "So very devoted to the laws of the universe huh? Very well then. Harry James Potter, born on the 31st of July, 1980." He tilted his gaze up to stare straight into Snape's eyes. "Died November 1st, 1896."

The wand was pointed at his heart in an instant. In the next, the blade of Undertaker's scythe was pressed gently against Snape's throat. There was a dangerous glint in Undertaker's eyes as he leaned in close.

"We would like to request a meeting with the Headmaster," Undertaker informed him in a dark whisper, a mockery of his usual teasing. Snape's glare intensified, and it looked like he might protest, so Undertaker pressed in even closer. "Technically I'm not allowed to kill you, but… _accidents happen_."

"See, we've been waiting quite some time for a… polite… way to see him. We have things to do, you see, and we need his cooperation, or his input, or even really just his permission. I suggest you do as we ask, because, as my associate pointed out, accidents happen. And as his supervisor, I can assure you that it would be an accident."

Snape was silent. His gaze shifted from the blade at his neck, to the elaborate skeletal handle, and then over to Harrison. In return, Harrison made sure that he was showing how serious he was. A minute passed in this manner, until Snape came to a decision.

He nodded very slightly, and Undertaker removed his scythe, stepping out of Snape's personal space, but moving to block the exit.

"I suppose that I could, well, send a message to the Headmaster. Would that be acceptable?"

Undertaker shrugged from behind Snape. While it was technically a joint mission, it concerned Harrison more than it did him.

"That shall suffice."

Snape twitched his robes into place, before pointing his wand at the ground between himself and Harrison. He muttered something indeterminate that must have been a spell, and in the blink of an eye a strange, silvery doe was standing in the middle of the room.

"Headmaster, I was delivering the letter as you ordered me to, but rather than Mister Potter I have encountered two men who wish to speak with you."

He waved his wand again, and the doe bowed its head and disappeared.

"What was that?" Harrison queried, mostly curious and just a little bit suspicious. Being charged to investigate magic while being unable to utilise it certainly made things awkward.

"It was a patronus. While that is not their primary use, the Headmaster found they could be used as a reliable form of communication."

"And what _is_ its primary function then?"

"Warding off Dementors."

Harrison frowned at the unfamiliar term. It stood to reason that there were a myriad of creatures he wouldn't know about in this society, given that Shinigami had nothing to do with the deaths of animals in the first place. They were a strictly human-only organisation. But the lack of practical knowledge was chafing.

"When can we expect a response?" He asked, instead of voicing his confusion.

Snape peered uneasily over his shoulder. Undertaker was caressing his scythe with his long painted nails, the expression on his face made all the stranger without his hair down to cover his eyes.

"Momentarily, I believe."

Nodding, Harrison wandered over to the anatomical dummy once more. He ran one manicured hand down its side, before plucking the plastic heart from its chest. He found hearts oddly fascinating, in both a mental and physical manner. How to sway a person's heart, the way of a demon; judging hearts, the task of a Shinigami.

Undertaker was the first to notice the new presence approaching the shop. While they had been expecting a response, perhaps in the form of another odd patronus, an actual face-to-face confrontation was ideal. It removed all the other in-between steps. The fact that they could sense them so easily meant it wasn't a customer, because regular humans possessed very little noticeable presence – though it was stronger closer to death. Non-humans had the most obvious presence – demons and other Shinigami. These wizards appeared to be somewhere in the middle of the two groups. Human-plus.

Harrison turned to face the door; Undertaker moved to the side of the room. Snape stared at them in confusion – that is, until someone knocked on the door.

They knocked three times. Then, as though just now noticing that it was a business they stood in front of and not a house, they opened the door.

Undertaker and Harrison both already possessed knowledge about Albus Dumbledore. Seeing him in person, however, was somewhat surreal. Harrison, who was used to eccentric people, courtesy of Undertaker and the red-headed Shinigami Grell Sutcliffe, found himself thrown marginally off-balance at the sight of the man in the doorway.

In theory, Albus Dumbledore was an esteemed and powerful wizard, assumedly approaching the end of his lifespan. He held several important positions, and was a notable political player. In reality, he was likely all of the above, but dressed in a very… ill-fitting suit. He was clothed in pretentious robes that just barely brushed the ground as he stood. They were a very pale blue, and if Harrison tilted his head slightly and squinted just so, he swore they were shimmering, as though he'd at one point walked through a storm of glitter and forgotten about it. He also possessed a white beard, hanging so long from his chin that the end of it was tucked into his belt.

Harrison adopted a blank expression, lips turned ever-so-slightly down at the edges. He squeezed the heart in his hand like a stress ball, waiting not-entirely-patiently for Dumbledore to close the door and properly enter the room.

Snape was the first to verbally acknowledge Dumbledore's presence. "Headmaster," he intoned, inclining his head in greeting. "These are the two men I spoke of."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, clapping his hands together once as he took in first the room, and then Undertaker and Harrison themselves. "So I see," he said eventually.

"You are the professor's employer then, I assume?" Harrison kept his gaze firmly just to the right of Dumbledore's face. The man had somewhat of a reputation, after all, and he wasn't in the mood for testing it out. "In that case, I would request you have him give me the letter that he came to deliver. It is, after all, rightfully mine."

Snape twitched, jaw clenched as he bit back whatever he so evidently wanted to say. It was Dumbledore's reaction Harrison was more interested in. The old man leaned forward a fraction, rubbing his chin with one hand in thought as he more carefully scrutinised Harrison.

Instead of outright denying him, or even asking his name, Dumbledore asked, "How old are you, my boy?"

He used the motion of replacing the heart as a momentary respite from that steely blue gaze. Of everything that had happened in his long life, he still abhorred being called boy.

"That depends," he replied evenly when he turned back to face them. His hands slid under his untucked shirt and into the pockets of his slacks, to hide the uncomfortable twitching from view. "Do you want a chronological or linear answer? And are we looking at it from my viewpoint or yours? I am ten, and twenty-four, and one hundred and nineteen, and ninety-five. It's all very confusing."

Undertaker snorted. Dumbledore's genial smile had slipped into a frown. Harrison held himself tall and still.

"Severus, give the boy the letter."

"Headmaster!" Snape spluttered angrily, "you can't possibly-"

"_Severus._"

The dark-clothed man lapsed into a furious silence. With great reluctance and obvious displeasure Snape removed an enveloped from a pocket and held it at arm's length, refusing to move. Harrison stepped forward to snatch it, barely refraining from rolling his eyes at the man's childishness.

Once he had retreated to a safe distance, Harrison glanced down at the envelope. _Harry Potter,_ it read. _Undertaker's Funeral Parlour._ It continued on to list their street address, right down to the last detail. An impressive feat. They weren't listed in the phonebook, and the land the shop resided on had been gifted to them _ever-so-kindly_ by a certain lord. They were off the grid, so to speak; the only way to know what was there was to walk by and see it in person.

He flipped the envelope over. It was sealed with red wax, which bore the crest of Hogwarts. As far as seals went, it wasn't overly impressive. The only reason he didn't break it when he went to open the envelope was because it would have damaged his nails.

The contents of the envelope were given a quick once-over. Harrison paid more attention to dates and names than to the contents of the stationery list. It was all very generic. 'Dear Mr Potter, Welcome to magic school, blah blah blah.' While not completely unexpected, the letter did still come as a surprise. That he might have magic was a possibility, according to the higher ups, but they cared little for his prowess. What they cared about was the connections that assumption might give him.

What amused him more than anything was the apparent fallibility of magic, for it hadn't recognised that Harry Potter was dead. Truly, a flaw in the system.

He folded the pages carelessly and shoved the parchment into a pocket, sharing a look with Undertaker.

"Headmaster," Snape protested once more, incensed over Harrison's casual dismissal of the contents of the letter. "The boy has been spouting nonsense since I arrived! It would be more prudent to simply obliviate the two of them and leave."

"Now now Severus, there is a mystery here, and I'm sure it can be solved without such harsh measures." Though his voice was kind, his gaze had taken a turn for the serious. "I believe," he continued, talking now to Harrison and Undertaker, "that you wished to speak with me. Please, feel free to start."

Harrison grinned, showing a flash of teeth. He settled himself on the chair he kept in the corner of the room, leaning lazily up against the plastic torso. Undertaker, scythe and all, settled into the padded coffin tilted against the wall, the one he had long since claimed as his own. Dumbledore, an unreadable expression on his face as he watched Undertaker, conjured a cushy armchair in the middle of the room. Snape very obviously wanted to leave as soon as possible, but after his previous interactions with the duo seemed reluctant to leave the headmaster alone with them. He settled for standing, arms crossed, beside the door.

"Allow me to tell you a story, Headmaster, if you will." Harrison put on his best story-telling voice. "A story about a boy. About Harry Potter."

**Author Note: **This is me proving that I can't stick to my resolve of finishing a story before posting it. The next chapter will be up whenever. This isn't my first priority story, but maybe right now I'm a little more into it than some of my others. All your questions will be answered eventually. What I will tell you is that for once I'm not shipping anything in this story. It's going to be totally gen. No romance at all.


	2. The Beginning

**Chapter Two – The Beginning:**

Everyone in Privet Drive knew about Mr and Mrs Dursley's nephew. They barely ever saw him unless he was pottering about in the garden, but they all knew he was there. It was only due to the fact that so many people knew about him that Petunia and Vernon didn't try and keep him home when Dudley started elementary school. They had contemplated sending him to a poorer school, but the fear of questions if anyone found out was too much.

So Harry Potter started school at the same time as his cousin, with a dire warning to keep his head down, not draw attention to himself, and to absolutely, under threat of punishment, keep his freakishness under wraps. Since Harry had never been sure what his Uncle classified as freakish and what he didn't, that usually meant don't speak unless spoken to, and don't do anything Dudley wouldn't do. Not that he wanted to act like his cousin, because even at five Dudley had a mean streak a mile wide, and had a tendency for starting fights in the playground.

Despite his word-of-mouth reputation as a troublemaker and a child delinquent, Harry's school years were reasonably quiet ones. Occasionally something would happen that no one could explain, for which his uncle always blamed him, but he didn't go out of his way to be obtrusive. He was quiet in class, only speaking to the teachers and not to the other students when he could help it. After a few months at school the novelty of having people his own age around had worn off, since no one was willing to brave Dudley's meaty fists to befriend him. Harry never blamed them for it, because he had been on the receiving end of Dudley's violence for as long as he could remember, and he wouldn't want his classmates getting hurt because of him.

Harry got average marks. His teachers would discuss him in quiet voices in the staff room, wondering if his marks were laziness or calculated brilliance, and worrying about his social tendencies – or lack thereof. Those talks never left the staff room. Considering Dudley's temperament, they didn't want to get involved with Mr and Mrs Dursley. They could only sit and hope that someone else with more will than them would come along and do something about it. _It_ being what they assumed was a less than ideal living situation.

Life continued on in this manner until Harry and Dudley were nine. Their school didn't often do field trips or camps, but when they did, they always, _always_ left the city limits. What good, the staff reasoned, was taking the students somewhere in London that their parents could very well take them to whenever they felt like it? That year, the school had organised a trip for the year 5 and 6 classes to travel to Cardiff. It was the farthest from home most of the kids would ever have been (because who wanted to take young children on unnecessary car trips?), so of course it was completely voluntary. Parents were also welcome to accompany the trip.

Vernon was adamant that there was no way he would allow Harry to attend the trip. He didn't deserve to travel. Dudley, however, in an unexpected show of school spirit, was excited and raring to go. Petunia then explained to him, in firm logic and a slightly wavering voice, that this was one of those things they would have to compromise on. Either they allowed Dudley to go, or they kept him home, but whichever one they chose, Harry would have to be extended that same choice. They couldn't afford to be seen so blatantly playing favourites and excluding Harry from the things they allowed Dudley to do. It was too public, too many people would notice. They were lucky as things stood, she pointed out, that no one had made too many comments on Harry's state of dress, which became increasingly shabby as Dudley grew and Harry did not.

"I won't stand for it," Vernon had snapped, but had later relented to sound logic. If Dudley wanted to go to Cardiff, he'd have to let Harry go too. And in that vein of thought, Petunia would also be going, as Vernon had to work, but they didn't want Dudley wandering around some foreign city on his own. (They refused to see the teachers and various other parents as adequate supervision for their beloved son.)

**oOoOo**

They would be spending two days in Cardiff. Harry had donned what he saw as his best clothing, because his aunt had made a right fuss the night before they left and commanded him to do his best not to draw attention while they were away. Though the outfit consisted of some of the oldest clothes he owned, well-worn and perhaps a little torn, they were what fit him best. The trousers were a pair he only had to roll up twice around the ankles to keep him from tripping, and that stayed put with the use of a frayed old belt his uncle had abandoned in his cupboard one day. His shirt hung awkwardly on his frame, as it had been bought for Dudley's heftier build, but at least in this one he didn't appear quite so much like he were swimming in fabric.

In actuality, Harry wasn't very excited to be going to Cardiff. Instead, he was excited about being able to spend a night away from his uncle and his cupboard. He'd be able to sleep in a proper bed for one night, and he wouldn't have to cook or clean or do any of the other myriad of chores he would usually be given.

"All right then." A teacher Harry didn't know, and only sort of recognised, addressed the gathered children and parents. They had arrived in Cardiff about half an hour ago, and had dropped off their overnight luggage where they'd be staying that night. "We're going to split into two groups and explore the city."

Petunia gave Harry a particularly fierce look, and he obediently shuffled over to where the second group was being formed. There were limits to her patience, after all, and letting him come on the trip at all was already breaking it. There was no need for him to force his presence on her when he didn't have to. It helped that the teacher leading the second group was Harry's own teacher, and not a stranger.

"Well then," she said, clasping her hands in front of her. "We're going to go down to Roald Dahl Plass and the waterfront. We'll all meet up again for lunch, and then go somewhere else. Okay? Okay. Let's go then shall we?"

Harry hovered at the edge of the group as they wandered the streets. Some of the parents eyed him oddly, but he ignored them all, keeping to himself and just making sure he didn't get lost. There was a part of him that _wanted_ to get lost, but not here, not now. Any other time, and he was almost certain no one would bother looking for him. Now, though, it would only make his aunt furious.

When the rest of the kids rushed over to the waterfront, Harry hung back. Instead of staring out at the water, he found himself in front of a tourist information centre. Harry wasn't even sure it was open, so he just glanced at the papers in the windows before moving back towards the Plass. His teacher would likely come fetch him soon, to make sure he didn't wander off entirely, but for now he was alone.

As he walked, Harry noticed a tension in the air that he couldn't explain. Instead of heading away from it, his curiosity brought him closer and closer. He took two steps, three, four, before something wrapped around his middle and his vision went dark.

_Later, when everything had come to pass, Harrison discovered the disappearance had caused quite a stir. There was a folder in the back room filled with articles about the incident, and missing child reports that had obviously been posted by the school and the police, and not by the Dursleys. To think that such a large fuss had been made over it, yet the wizarding world hadn't noticed. Wasn't Harry Potter supposed to be an important member of their society? Harrison wasn't about to disclose that information in present company, though._

When Harry's world stopped spinning, and colour returned to his vision, he immediately collapsed on the ground. His body ached – it had felt like his body was being pulled in a million different directions all at once, and Harry ran his fingers across all his limbs just to make sure nothing was missing.

It was the sounds surrounding him that eventually pulled Harry from his fearful contemplation. It had been noisy in the Plass, and it was noisy here too, but it was a different sort of noise. Harry had gotten very good at identifying certain sounds, and he wasn't at all sure what was going on. With that thought Harry finally opened his eyes – he'd been afraid, initially, that if he did, he'd find himself back in that swirling dark vortex, and had hoped to put off that realisation for as long as possible.

What he saw was not what he expected to see. Harry was on the ground just inside the mouth of an alleyway, but it wasn't his location that shocked him. Where he would have expected cars, there were horse-drawn carriages.

"Woah…" Harry had never seen a horse in person before. These ones looked all business-like, so he knew better than to try and get near them, no matter how much he might have wanted to.

Finally, he climbed to his feet, wincing as a dull pain crawled up his legs. Dusty fingers settled his glasses more firmly on his nose. Resolutely, he shuffled to the edge of the street, curling his fingers around the edge of the building and peering around the corner.

Everyone looked… strange. Some of the men had fancy walking sticks and tall hats, and every single lady Harry could see was wearing a dress. Though his aunt always wore dresses, his teacher never did. But then, they weren't really dressed like his aunt either.

"Where'd the waterfront go?" he asked the air, glancing left and right and up and down as though the tourist office and the water might suddenly reappear. When it didn't, he had to sit down again. His legs trembled faintly at the realisation that he had absolutely no idea where he was.

"What did I _do?!_" He stared at his hands, remembering every time someone called him freak. Every time something unimaginable happened that his aunt and uncle blamed on him. Every little thing that they hadn't caught wind of.

Yes, he'd been contemplating running away, but not like _this._ Not by using his freakishness, and ending up who-knows-where. He didn't even have any clothes or food or anything! All he had was a stupid flyer for something in Cardiff, and a muesli bar he'd snuck from the kitchen after Dudley decided he didn't like that flavour anymore.

Harry clenched his fists in his lap. He'd made up his mind. If his freakishness was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place, then he vowed to never do anything freakish again for as long as he lived. A wavering cold sensation washed over him at the thought, there one moment and gone the next. He shuddered, glancing around the alley.

_That might have been when everything began getting out of hand, Harrison mused. Rejecting your magic wasn't something to be taken lightly. It could wreak all sorts of havoc, if given the opportunity. _

Harry, used to going without food and water for extended periods of time, managed to make his muesli bar last three whole days before he finally finished it off. Being used to it didn't mean he felt any less horrid. His stomach ached and his vision blurred sometimes – it was bad enough already since his clothes were dirty from the streets and he had nothing to clean his glasses with – and he'd been wandering the streets for days. No one had noticed him except to scoff or turn their noses up at him, the filthy street urchin.

Someone had mentioned London, but Harry was positive there was no way this was London. A tiny morbid voice in his head wondered if he'd actually died already, and this was some sort of punishment for being a freak. But he'd shake it off and keep moving. There had to be _someone_ who would help, right?

Turns out Harry might have been wrong about the kindness of strangers. When he found himself in front of an odd store with coffins out the front, he doubled over with laughter. Strained, hysterical, sobbing laughter. Desperate laughter. That was as good a place as any to curl up and die, right?

That was the last thing that crossed his mind before he passed out.

_He really should have died long before he did. Somehow, luck was always on his side just when he needed it most._

_Harrison despised thinking of Harry Potter as himself. In his mind, they were two very different entities. He was Harrison, a Shinigami, important because he made himself so. Harry Potter was a boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders, through no fault of his own. His life after that point hadn't been so terrible, true, but he'd always felt like something was hovering just over his shoulder, waiting for him. Destiny, perhaps. The rift, come to send him back to whence he came. He'd never figured it out; he only knew that he'd managed to outwit it, escape it, with his death._

When Harry awoke, it was to a shadowed face leaning over him. He froze in shock, eyes wide with confusion. A loud sigh reached his ears, and when the face moved back he saw that the figure was pouting.

"Still alive, eh? Such a shame. Don't often get corpses delivered straight to my door."

The silver haired man grinned suddenly, and offered Harry something shaped like a dog bone.

"Biscuit?"

And that was how he met Undertaker.

**Author's Note: I don't know anything about Cardiff! I just did a quick google-maps search and then nicked some stuff from the Torchwood Wiki. Harry got tossed through time by a negative rift spike. The story is going to jump between the two time periods a lot. What happens here and in the next chapter is only the parts Harrison is choosing to share with Dumbledore.**


	3. Undertaker, the Info Broker

**Author's Note:** Oh, that's right, University always does a number on my story productivity. Sorry about that.

**Chapter Three – Undertaker, the Info Broker:**

Life got better after that.

Harry never did figure out what possessed the man to let him stay, but he suspected Undertaker probably didn't have a reason anyway. He wasn't the sort of man who thought about things in good idea-bad idea terms. He simply did or didn't. If he wanted to do something, he'd do it. If he didn't, you'd be better off trying to lift a building with your bare hands.

That didn't mean he was a good guardian.

It was a good thing Harry had never had any decent parental figures in his life, or he might have felt like something was missing. Things were strange enough with the realisation that Undertaker didn't want anything from him. He didn't want Harry to cook or clean for him, and he even provided some answers.

He often spoke strangely, so Harry was never quite sure when he was being serious and when he was joking, but he'd gotten a handle on some things.

As hard as it was to believe, according to Undertaker, Harry had somehow found himself in 1881. _London_, 1881.

Harry had refused to talk to Undertaker for four hours after that particular announcement, since he'd been absolutely positive that he was being pranked. His behaviour only seemed to amuse Undertaker, but he did eventually acquire a paper from somewhere, leaving Harry to his own devices as he stared unblinkingly at the date.

After that he pretty much took whatever Undertaker told him at face value.

**oOoOo**

Undertaker had no idea what to do with a kid, so it was lucky Harry knew how to look after himself.

At first he was quite unnerved, not just by Undertaker – who certainly took some getting used to – but by his business. The coffins were one thing. He could pretend they were other things, like… storage. Except Undertaker slept in one of them, and that was pretty weird, and it tended to shatter his careful illusions. Worse than all that though was when Undertaker was actually dealing with dead people.

Harry had never seen a dead person before. His uncle's parents were still alive, and so he'd never had to go to a funeral – not that they would have wanted him there if something _had_ happened. So it stood to reason that he tended to get a bit squeamish whenever Undertaker actually had to prepare a body for a funeral or burial. Undertaker almost seemed at his most cheerful while dealing with the corpses, which left Harry with an odd feeling in his gut.

It lasted about a year or so after he encountered the first corpse. He'd been curious, a curiosity he'd been learning it was okay to indulge, and he'd touched the body with shaky fingers. It had been cold. Too cold. Unnatural. He freaked out, and resolved to never go near another dead body ever again.

By the time his eleventh birthday rolled around, however, he'd started seeing the good side in what Undertaker did. It probably helped that Undertaker was the only person he'd had any prolonged contact with since arriving in this London – his eccentricities were beginning to rub off on Harry. He didn't exactly start going out of his way to touch the bodies or help Undertaker with them, but they stopped making him squeamish, and he could deal with being in the room with them while Undertaker worked.

**oOoOo**

Harry had an uncanny knack for going unseen.

It came, in part, from growing up wishing he was invisible, and doing everything in his power to try and make that a reality. But it wasn't anything so simple as keeping out of people's lines of sight and making his presence as unobtrusive as possible.

On the odd occasion when Undertaker had visitors for his _other_ line of work, Harry tended to situate himself in some dark corner of the room or another. He was slowly getting used to people, but these visitors were ones he didn't really want to get close to.

Some of them were shady sorts of people, others had a noble air to them, and others still were foreigners. Only once did Scotland Yard make an appearance.

Regardless, Harry knew that there were things he knew that no one else should be allowed to know, and there was a sort of fear that came with that knowledge that warned him away from those people.

No one ever commented on his presence. In the beginning Harry assumed they just weren't interested in knowing why some kid was hanging about Undertaker's place. But after a couple of visitors Undertaker started giving him these long, considering looks during odd hours of the day.

Harry wasn't sure what the looks were about, but then Undertaker dragged out a stool and instructed him to sit on it during his next meeting. The idea terrified Harry, because that would mean being in plain sight, and he didn't want to be noticed.

He wasn't noticed.

The customer arrived, gave the stool an odd look, made a lacklustre quip about not having the time to sit down and discuss business, and left after a short and potentially unfulfilling conversation with Undertaker. Throughout the whole discussion, Harry could feel Undertaker's gaze on him. He couldn't figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Harry," Undertaker said eventually. He didn't usually bother with Harry's name, so it immediately drew his attention. "Are you aware that you are sometimes very difficult to see?"

Harry's lips pressed into a firm line, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Undertaker didn't sound mad, more disinterestedly curious, but being invisible… That made it sound like he was acting like a freak again. Did he really want to admit to that? Wouldn't he get kicked out?

_But lying is bad_, another part of him whispered. _What's worse? Lying or being a freak?_

But Undertaker lied all the time. It was something Harry had noticed over time. Maybe they weren't the sort of lies Dudley used to tell, the outrageous ones, but they were still lies. Half-truths. Sneaky manipulations. Undertaker was far more intelligent than Dudley was, after all. It made sense, if his lies were harder to pick apart. But Harry was practiced at that.

_And,_ a fresher, more resilient part of him whispered, _He's not normal either. So maybe, with him, being freakish won't be so bad._

If only Undertaker was easier to read.

"I don't mean to be," Harry said eventually. Frowning slightly, he tilted his head. No, that was wrong. "I mean, well, I don't want them to see me. And they don't. I just thought I was hiding well, or they didn't care about me." Until the incident Undertaker pulled just now. There was a slight quiver in his voice when he added, "Are you mad?"

For the longest time Undertaker simply stared at him. Or at least, Harry thought he was staring. He couldn't see Undertaker's eyes, hidden as they always were beneath his long hair.

"Merely curious," Undertaker assured eventually.

Harry would have been a fool to think that that would be the end of it.

Over the next few months Undertaker put him in all sorts of strange situations, testing his uncanny ability to more or less disappear.

It wasn't that he was invisible. More that he blended in to his surroundings, caused people's gazes to pass over him without thought. But he had to _want_ it.

On Harry's twelfth birthday Undertaker appeared to have come to some sort of decision, one that he had, of course, not involved Harry in the making of. It made Harry all sorts of curious and nervous, but whatever it was he knew would be explained in due time.

**oOoOo**

As it turned out, Undertaker's decision was for Harry to train his unusual ability, to hone it and perfect it.

His life became a constant training exercise. Harry was given all sorts of tasks to attempt, all in the name of bettering his skill.

At first, it was to disappear on command. When he appeared to have mastered the concept, he was thrust out into the streets and instructed to get from Point A to Point B without being noticed.

Manoeuvring through crowds of people proved to be a much harder task than Harry had expected. This was because, despite being able to turn essentially invisible, he was still very much a solid presence. When he couldn't be seen by busy or hurried pedestrians, he was constantly being walked into. That meant he had to train not only his ability to remain invisible for prolonged periods of time, but his reflexes, and his attention to detail. He needed to learn to dodge _everyone_ and still manage to progress from one place to another, without being stuck in one portion of the street, hopping from one spot to another.

It was a challenge, and he relished it in a way he hadn't expected to.

Up until then he hadn't spent much time at all outside of Undertaker's Funeral Parlour, and he was finally getting the chance to learn his way around this older version of London. It was exhilarating.

Once his reflexes were up to scratch, Undertaker started sending him out to collect information. Technically, Harry supposed it was spying, but he didn't care. He was being useful, and he was getting out and about, and he would prove that Undertaker hadn't made a mistake in taking him in that day all those years ago.

**oOoOo**

When he was sixteen, and really rather accustomed to all the espionage-style information gathering he was tasked with, Harry met the Earl Phantomhive for the first time.

Ciel Phantomhive was young, younger than Harry had anticipated. At all of twelve years old, he was the head of his family, and had a heavy title weighing on his shoulders, tasked with cleaning up messes at the behest of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.

It was the Phantomhive family, Harry learned, that most of Undertaker's information seeking was used for. Strange though it seemed to Harry, who had never seen Undertaker in that manner, Undertaker was undoubtedly affiliated with Ciel's family, and seemed to take extreme pleasure in forcing all sorts of crude payments from Ciel's servants and associates.

He discovered that the triumphant return of the tragically orphaned Phantomhive Heir meant a turning point in his life. Petty crime and espionage now had a purpose, and that was to aid Ciel is whatever endeavour he asked for assistance with – and plenty that he didn't.

Undertaker had no love for the queen, and it was that and that alone that had Harry confused. Why would Undertaker put so much effort into aiding the Queen's Guard Dog?

_If truth be told, Harrison never did figure out Undertaker's conflicting thoughts about Queen Victoria. He liked to think it was some sort of cynicism, a cynicism that he'd given up on after her passing. No Shinigami could fault Victoria in death. She had given them too much. Surely, he preferred to think, even Undertaker respected that._

The eight years that followed Harry's first meeting with Ciel Phantomhive were fraught with more action, mystery and intrigue than he would have thought possible. There were tame incidents, such as the attempted sabotage of the Queen's curry competition, and there were wild chases which Harry had barely any insight into, such as Ciel's unexpected trip to Germany.

When he was a small child, Harry never in his wildest dreams could have imagined the life that had become his. Working as an assistant to an information broker who was also a mortician, and living a life of freedom that he'd thought would never be his.

The 19th century might have been pretty strange at first, but Harry had never felt more alive and at peace.


	4. Making Deals

**Chapter Four – Making Deals:**

"It was just after he turned twenty-four that the accident happened," Harrison explained, adopting a faux-solemn tone. "Caught in the middle of a right nasty carriage crash, or so they say." No one asked who 'they' were, and he didn't elaborate. "Undertaker sorted his funeral – or rather, his burial; not like there was anyone around to attend a funeral. He was hated by many and tolerated by few, after all, just like Undertaker."

Dumbledore leaned forward in his conjured armchair, fingers laced together beneath his chin, an unreadable expression on his aged face. He had listened silently as Harrison spoke, face giving away none of the myriad of thoughts Harrison was sure were floating around in his head. Snape had done no such thing, a sneer permanently on his lips as Harrison's story progressed.

"All right," Dumbledore allowed, ignoring many of the questions that he obviously wanted answers to. "Suppose we take your tale at face value." His bright blue eyes stared accusingly in Undertaker's direction for a moment, the question clear – _this is the same man, isn't he? How is he still alive?_ He leaned back in his chair and the conversation took an unexpected one-eighty. "I don't believe I caught your names?"

Harrison stroked the model's plastic hip.

"We didn't offer them," he admitted slowly. For a second his composure slipped. Dumbledore was an old man, and Harrison had expected someone slightly more senile. This knife-sharp mind was difficult to deal with. He pushed his glasses up his nose, glancing questioningly at Undertaker. Truth or fiction? The truth required explanations, though they weren't obligated to give them. Lies would be suspicious. Withholding information from Dumbledore seemed like a dangerous game, but life had been so very boring these last ten years.

Undertaker tapped his scythe on the floor, and shrugged beneath his long cloak.

"He's Undertaker," he acquiesced, watching a triumphant gleam appear momentarily in Dumbledore's ancient eyes, "and I'm Harrison. No last names, no fancy titles. That's it."

Snape huffed and sneered in the background, and Harrison had no doubt he was likely cursing them both to oblivion.

Dumbledore certainly didn't mince words, but he wasn't exactly straightforward either.

"Undertaker would be the same man from your story then?"

Under his questions Harrison found himself coming back to even ground. He'd been thrown by Dumbledore, but he was recovering now. This was familiar territory. Withholding information, being purposefully obtuse, answering without answering, and overall acting far too aloof for a serious conversation.

He grinned broadly. "Now that would be telling."

Fury blazed at him from those eyes for a split-second, coming and going so quickly that Harrison _almost_ allowed himself to believe it was a trick of the light. He was making the old wizard mad.

They stared at each other, Harrison with his brows raised, Dumbledore with his lips pressed into a tight line. Snape interrupted them with a snarl.

"Instead of playing petty games, Headmaster, would it not be more prudent to simply ascertain _why_ Mister Potter's letter was addressed to this… Merlin-forsaken _business_ when, as the two have so _kindly_ explained, Mister Potter is apparently no longer among the living?"

Every word from his mouth dripped venom and loathing, and Harrison drank it up like an elixir. Hate was something he was very well accustomed to, and these days he thrived on it.

Dumbledore did not seem nearly as amused by Snape's outburst. His wrinkled fingers tapped the arm of his plush chair, and his voice was subtly frigid when he bit out, "Be silent, Severus."

Harrison had to fight the urge to stick his tongue out at the professor, if only because he was aware it might get cursed off if he dared. He was rather partial to having a tongue. Losing a tongue wouldn't get him retirement benefits from the Agency either; it would just make it exceptionally difficult to talk. And he rather liked talking.

"I apologise for the tone, but my colleague's question is valid. If, as you have explained, Mr Potter is indeed dead, how did this letter come to be?"

"Magical residue?" Harrison waved his hand around absently, gesturing at the building in general. "This is the same funeral parlour, after all. But you are far more attuned to magic than I shall ever be, and I'm sure I can't come up with any sort of theories that you yourself wouldn't already have thought of."

Dumbledore didn't appear at all appeased by his whimsical explanation. Harrison sighed and leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands and resting his forearms on his legs.

"Listen, don't you think maybe it has something to do with the progression of time? This Potter kid didn't get any invitations to any magic schools when he was in London, and perhaps that was because he wasn't supposed to exist? And now we're here, and everything's come full circle, only he's not around anymore. The rift is a confusing phenomenon which is only just now beginning to be monitored and observed. It would stand to reason that this non-magical form of time travel might have messed with your magic's ability to properly comprehend his existence. Harry Potter didn't die until he was twenty four so, technically, he should still be alive to receive this letter, at the age of eleven. Only his eleven occurred a hundred odd years ago."

Snape was absolutely livid. His fingers were white around his wand, he was gripping it so tightly. His jaw twitched and his teeth were clenched. The only thing stopping him from speaking or acting out was the presence of the headmaster. Of that Harrison was absolutely certain.

"Do you think that is likely?" Dumbledore asked, his tone betraying none of what he felt about Harrison's explanation.

"Like I said, you're the magic expert, you tell me."

Dumbledore ignored the teasing jab, and started off in a different direction instead.

"You said that Mister Potter's letter was rightfully yours. What did you mean by that?"

Undertaker chuckled, and a low whisper of "He's got you there," reached Harrison's ears. He signed back something rude in Shinigami hand signals.

"You could say I'm sort of like his next of kin."

"And how does a dead young man with no relatives or acquaintances come across a next of kin?"

Harrison bit down on his tongue, regretting now the way he'd told the story. There had been more merit than downsides in deleting all mention of the supernatural outside of regular wizardry, but given how most of his acquaintances and business partners had been on that side of things, it also made these explanations much more difficult to navigate than they needed to be. But he wasn't about to launch into a discussion on demons when he was trying to get information on Tom Riddle. He got the feeling those two topics were better left unmixed.

"Luck of the draw?"

Dumbledore was frowning again, and Harrison decided it was time he took back the reigns of this talk, before the questions really started piling up.

"Ten years ago, a dark wizard going by the name Lord Voldemort was supposedly defeated, bringing an end to yet another wizarding war."

That abrupt statement startled their two guests. Snape's grip on his wand, if anything, tightened further, while his face took on an almost sickly pallor. Dumbledore eyed him with great suspicion, and Harrison knew the old man wasn't going to just forget about the letter issue.

"What makes you so suspicious of his downfall?"

"My sources are irrelevant. The fact is, you know, and I know, that he's still out there, biding his time, doing whatever it is that half-dead wizards do. He's not defeated, and he's certainly not dead. This is a problem that needs to be rectified."

"If Harry Potter is as dead as you claim, then we have very little hope indeed of defeating Voldemort, if he manages to return."

Harrison paused, confused.

"I don't see how those two things correlate."

A tiny glimmer of triumph appeared on Dumbledore's features, an 'aha!' moment. He'd realised that Harrison wasn't quite as all-knowing as he tried to make himself out to be.

"Harry Potter is a vital piece in the fight against Voldemort," He explained. "There was a prophecy th-"

Harrison rolled his eyes as Undertaker's eerie laughter rang through the room. A prophecy. Of course. He should have seen that coming.

"My employers don't believe in prophecies. You'll find they aren't much more than hot air. Good for gossip, but sorely lacking in precision and fact."

Though if it involved Harry Potter, Harrison enacting his duties as a Shinigami and sending Tom Riddle to his ultimate death might very well be the answer to the prophecy.

"Your employers? So you don't work here in this establishment?"

"I live here," Harrison said slowly, before realising his mistake. He sighed. "Listen, there are interested parties-"

"Interested _muggle_ parties?" Snape sneered in disbelief, breaking his silence.

"Yes, interested _non-magical_ parties, Severus Snape." Yellow-green eyes glowed dangerously behind glass lenses. "Is it so hard to believe that you are not the only people who would see Voldemort dead?"

"It is merely a surprise," Dumbledore assured, a sentence which surely screamed _Keep your mouth shut or I will shut it for you._ "While Lord Voldemort has, of course, caused much trouble for the muggles as well, none are aware of his existence. Not even magical communities from other parts of the world have expressed any interest in offering us aid, not even during his initial uprising. They didn't wish to become involved with our struggle, in fear that it might draw Voldemort's attention to them instead."

For a moment Harrison became lost in thought, wondering if the Shinigami in Germany had ever had to deal with this sort of thing before. The divisions rarely shared information with each other.

"We intend to see through the death which should have occurred ten years ago. These sorts of things should not remain unfinished."

It was Undertaker who said this, suddenly a picture of an avenging angel, or of death, with his scythe and cloak and the dark look in his eyes which were currently free from the screen of his hair. A thrill shot through Harrison. This was his mentor, his guardian, the man who taught him most of what he knew. And Undertaker, when not undertaking some nefarious scheme, the likes of which he often indulged in during the late 19th century, was so very rarely this serious. Harrison craved moments like this.

When Harrison finally drew his attention away from Undertaker, Dumbledore was once more an unreadable figure, his blue gaze darting between them in thought.

Technically speaking, they had been given no mission parameters, other than the eventual collection of the remainder of Tom Riddle's soul. They had not been forbidden from speaking in-depth about their mission, nor had they been instructed not to mention the Shinigami Institution. They had free reign on what they divulged to Dumbledore in order to achieve his cooperation – not that they implicitly required it. But deep down Harrison knew that sharing that sort of information would only complicate matters.

"Undertaker is correct," Harrison confirmed. "You have nothing to worry about from us. We wish only to see his complete demise. And on that note, Headmaster, I'm curious as to what your plans are in this regard."

Dumbledore was silent for a long minute. One hand rose to rub at his temples.

"I had intended to attempt to lure him to the school, but without Mister Potter I fear the plan will only result in more danger than necessary."

Lure Voldemort into a school full of children? Harrison had to applaud his recklessness. Or was it desperation?

"That's a dangerous game to be playing," Harrison commented, somewhat distracted. He pulled the notebook from his pocket once more, and opened it to a page at random.

Tom Marvolo Riddle stared back at him in bold, neat, writing. The higher-ups had no idea how his soul escaped death without even becoming a ghost. It was a mystery that needed solving, and the best way to do that would be to see it in person.

"Continue with your plan," he decided, closing the notebook. "Lure him, and let us see what has become of him."

"Excuse me?"

"Whatever your plan entails, stick to it."

Harrison ignored Dumbledore's bewilderment, and fished around in a different pocket. At length, he pulled out a very old business card. Emblazoned upon it was an agreement Queen Victoria had made many years ago, allowing the supernatural entities that plagued her country to do whatever they saw fit, if it meant protecting her citizens against the forces of evil. It was an agreement come to at her deathbed, in the company of a Shinigami with far better bedside manner than William T Spears.

Gingerly he held the card out to Dumbledore.

"Undertaker and myself are members of staff at Hogwarts, effective immediately. We'll see this Voldemort with our own eyes."

Snape looked ready to explode, but even Dumbledore couldn't argue with the Queen, even after her passing.


	5. Hogwarts Stakeout

**Chapter Five – Hogwarts Stakeout:**

Harrison had seen his parents only once, while snooping through the archives at the British Shinigami Headquarters. They were on file, along with every other deceased human from the last hundred years (he wasn't sure what happened to older records, and he didn't much care either), and he'd been casually perusing deaths from Voldemort's First Reign, trying to find some insight into how the man's mind worked.

What first struck a chord with him was the realisation that, while he himself had died fairly young, at only twenty four, he had still managed to live a longer human life than his parents had. People died young all the time, and Harrison knew that was just the way of the world, the luck of the draw. But this resonated unpleasantly. It was, he realised eventually, because this was personal. They were his family, the ones who would have cared for him if they hadn't been torn from life so soon.

What drew his attention after that was the pictures in the files. Harrison didn't spend an awful lot of time looking at his own reflection, but he could see the resemblance. His eyes had once been the same colour as his mother's, though they were now the glowing yellow-green of a Shinigami, and his hair, when it was cut short, had suffered from the same messiness as his father's seemed to. In his earlier years, his face had quite resembled his father's, but as he grew his features evened out, a blend of both parents, but uniquely his.

It had been his appearance which he had anticipated would give him the most trouble around people who had been familiar with his parents. That was why he relished the disappearance of his lightning bolt scar and emerald eyes when he became a Shinigami. It was why he kept his hair long, and cursed the Shinigami's biological need for glasses (and cursed Undertaker while he was at it, for the man's ability to function so well without them).

But Severus Snape, who went to school with his parents, had shown no inkling of recognition when he laid eyes on Harrison. It was like passing a test. His behaviour, his lengthy hair, and his flippant attitude towards magic, all came together as a smokescreen which took attention away from his facial structure, and made him just another black haired young man.

He was unsure as to how well the subtle deception had worked on Dumbledore, but Harrison was mostly satisfied that any suspicion Dumbledore had about him was influenced by the things he'd said, rather than how he looked.

After Harrison's declaration of employment, he gave Dumbledore a week to think about it (or, more accurately, to figure out how to explain it when the time came), and ushered both wizards out of the funeral parlour. They did not go quietly, but they went without resistance.

"Well then," Harrison said, after locking the door and flipping the open sign to closed. "That's one more thing to thank Queen Vi for."

Undertaker disappeared into the back room without responding, and Harrison followed, shrugging off his suit jacket and loosening the collar of his shirt.

"Are you mad?"

Undertaker paused, tossing a blank stare over his shoulder as he moved to put away his scythe.

"What could I possibly be mad about?"

Harrison threw himself onto the couch, stretching out along the cushions and tucking his hands behind his head. He clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes a little.

"Plenty of things, I'm sure. But I suppose I should stick with today specifically? Let's see…" An exaggeratedly thoughtful expression curled Harrison's lips. "For making decisions without consulting you? For signing you up for school? That going to school means leaving the funeral parlour? After all, I know how attached to these places you get."

"I think you've misunderstood something about me somewhere along the way."

"Oh?" Harrison glanced over to the corner of the room where Undertaker was sitting in an old armchair. "What's that? Your obsession with death which, even for a Shinigami, borders on unhealthy?"

"I have long since put that behind me."

For a moment Harrison was taken aback by the tinge of bitterness that edged its way into Undertaker's words. His thoughts flew back to the _Campania_ – he hadn't been there, but by gods had he heard about it later. Undertaker's obsession with death had truly been astounding. Had he truly outgrown it? Or merely grown bored? Willing to live in peaceful subservience with Harrison as his watcher? Evidently it was best not to push the matter.

"Okay, okay, point taken. But what about the school? _Teenagers._ Teenagers trapped within the castle grounds, stuck in close proximity for months on end. You can be annoyed by that. I'm not exactly looking forward to it myself."

"This isn't the first time I've infiltrated a school."

Oh. Right. Harrison blanched and brought his hands down to rest over his stomach instead. A hundred years could do funny things to your memory, but Undertaker had been around much longer than that, and his clarity sometimes surprised him.

"Never mind then," he muttered. Harrison closed his eyes and pulled off his glasses. There were things he still needed to plan, given this spur of the moment change of events.

"Rather than angry," Undertaker said after a prolonged silence. "I'm concerned. If those two are a fair indicator of the staffing situation, it's going to be a very tedious mission."

That was true. Harrison frowned.

"We'll just have to liven the school up then, won't we?"

Undertaker snorted, and Harrison let out a low giggle.

Being stuck between the suspicion of Albus Dumbledore and the hatred of Severus Snape, they'd have to make their own brand of misery while at the school.

Hopefully they wouldn't have to stay for the entire year.

**oOoOo**

Dumbledore arrived at the funeral parlour two weeks after their initial meeting. Knowing that he had no real choice but to obey their wishes – for the time being, in any case, while he no doubt tried to find a valid reason to deny them – he had agreed to bring Harrison and Undertaker on as new staff at Hogwarts.

By the time he arrived Harrison and Undertaker had already packed the parlour back down to the empty shell of a building it had been before they were stationed there. They'd told him it was the same parlour as the one Undertaker used to run, and that was only half a lie. It wasn't in the same part of London, but Undertaker had arranged the new shop to his liking, so it very much mimicked their old place, with a few modern touches. If Dumbledore thought it strange they were completely emptying out the store – a store that had, according to them, been around for a good hundred years – he didn't voice it.

"I trust you've packed appropriately," was how he greeted them, a steely look in his eyes that told them further pleasantries would have to be earned after the way their first meeting spiralled out of control.

Harrison rolled his eyes and hoisted a hefty bag over his shoulder. Technically speaking there was a lot of unnecessary stuff in that bag, but it would look pretty suspicious if he and Undertaker rocked up to the castle with just a few changes of clothes each. As it stood, Undertaker's rather unorthodox repurposed modified hockey bag contained Undertaker's scythe and nothing else. So Harrison had to pack for both of them.

"We're fine," he reassured in a drawl, just to see the tightening of skin around Dumbledore's eyes as he tried to fight off a frown.

"We didn't touch on this when we last spoke, but may I assume the two of you are muggles?"

"Is that important somehow?" He tugged at his hair, wondering if it would pay to braid it like Undertaker sometimes did.

"There are several muggle repelling wards in place around the school. I insist on knowing before bringing you to Hogsmeade as it will affect our arrival."

Harrison tapped a finger against his lips and glanced over at Undertaker.

"Let's just call us squibs."

Dumbledore was definitely frowning now.

"You admitted to working for a non-magical third party. I assumed, then, that you also fell into that category. You'll find that very few magical people have any interest in siding with muggles in, well, anything. It's true that you've displayed an unsettling yet sporadic knowledge of our world, but I don't believe I'm wrong in saying you are not a part of it."

Well, if nothing else, Harrison was now left with no doubts as to whether or not Dumbledore recognised him at all. If he was so confident they weren't magical then he had no reason to also be questioning his relationship to Harry Potter. A win-win, if they could just get Dumbledore to shut up and take them to the school.

"Yes, okay, I get that, but I'm just saying, I don't think we technically classify as muggles. I was just trying to make this easier."

Oh Harrison could just about _see_ the questions racing through the old man's mind. Questions he knew Dumbledore knew he wouldn't be getting answers to even if he asked them. It was _wonderful_.

"You believe then," Dumbledore said slowly, with an undercurrent of exasperation, "that the muggle repelling wards won't affect you."

"Exactly." Harrison clapped his hands together, despite knowing that it wasn't exactly confirmation Dumbledore was after. That was all the old man was getting – and Harrison needed to stop calling him an old man when he himself was actually a little older. Information was sacred, and he knew at least one person who would happily have his head if he frivolously squandered information about their identities.

Dumbledore let out a weary sigh, seemingly resigned to not getting straight answers to anything he asked. He reached into one of his robe pockets and withdrew a long wooden spoon. Harrison tilted his head and squinted at it. Undertaker chuckled under his breath.

"What the hell is that supposed to be for?"

Dumbledore's eyes lit up and he smiled in a slightly deprecating manner. Too late Harrison realised it had been a bad idea to so openly express his confusion.

"This, my dear boy, is a portkey. It will transport the three of us to Hogsmeade."

Harrison pulled a face. He disliked being referred to as a boy. He was over one hundred years old, and it felt a little degrading. But it was apparently Dumbledore's go-to endearment when explaining things. He'd have to stop asking questions. But he nodded along, pretending the word portkey meant something to him.

"If you would both take a hold of the portkey?"

Harrison placed three fingers on the spoon's handle, trying not to frown. This sort of transport seemed absurd to him, and he wasn't looking forward to it. Undertaker followed suit, draping elegantly painted fingers across the wood.

"Very good. Don't let go, no matter what. Now, three…"

As Dumbledore finished his countdown a sudden feeling of discomfort began in Harrison's navel. It was as though something had plunged into his gut and was _tugging_ him forwards. Tugging him through space. He wanted to throw up, a sensation he hadn't experienced in decades. He could barely see, the world flashing around him in a daze of melted colour and rushing sound.

Without warning, as suddenly as it began, Harrison's feet slammed into solid ground once again. His knees buckled, and his bag slipped off his shoulder, but he managed to stay on his feet. When his vision settled he glanced over at Undertaker. His silver hair hung across his face, and Harrison noticed the way his long nails dug into his arms as he folded them across his chest. Usually unshakeable, Undertaker had also been unnerved by the sudden shift.

Dumbledore cleared his throat politely. Harrison snapped back to attention.

They were on the outskirts of an old village. Milling about the main street were a handful of people dressed in the same manner as Dumbledore, though in calmer shades. A wizarding village at the foot of a wizarding school.

Harrison turned around, and couldn't contain a small sound of amazement at the sight of the castle. He purposely ignored the sudden smugness in Dumbledore's small smile. It was going to take a lot of his willpower to continue ignoring the headmaster if that was how he was going to react every time he proved there was something they didn't know about.

"Not bad," Undertaker murmured, also peering up at the castle from under his hair.

When Harrison decided there had been enough gawking, he picked his bag back up off the ground and stared pointedly at Dumbledore.

"Shall we get going then?"

"Yes, of course."

Dumbledore opened the gates with a dramatic flourish of his wand, before slowing beginning to ascend the long sloped pathway that led up through the grounds. Harrison spent a moment glaring at his back before he and Undertaker followed suit.

"The school term begins in a week," Dumbledore explained as they walked, keeping a careful eye on them while pretending not to. "The rest of the staff have all already arrived, and have been forewarned of your unusual appointment, though not the details of it. I did however have one concern, in regards to your identities while you remain in the school. Harrison is a fine name, of course, but you lack a surname with which the students may address you. And Undertaker is hardly a name at all, and certainly not suitable for school staff, even as a caretaker."

"You wish us to create false aliases then?"

Dumbledore nodded, and glanced back at them over his shoulder.

"Will that pose a problem?"

"Not at all."

Harrison cast his thoughts inwards, a mental list of all the people he'd ever associated with flashing behind his eyes. Obviously claiming the surname Potter, no matter how common a name it was, particularly in the muggle world, would cause a stir, an unpleasant one at that. He didn't need the extra scrutiny that would he heaped on him with such a controversial moniker.

Going by Phantomhive would be amusing to no end, but too risky. He wouldn't want that demon catching wind of it somehow, and reporting back. The Earl would endeavour to make his life hell for as long as he remained stationed on this mission, and he couldn't handle those two things at the same time.

"Phipps," he decided eventually, as they neared the great doors into the castle. Harrison recalled that half of Double Charles with a certain fondness, though he held no affection for Grey. "Harrison Phipps. Does that suit your needs, headmaster?"

"Indeed it does. Mister Undertaker?"

Harrison turned and caught sight of a wide grin on Undertaker's face. A sense of foreboding shot through him.

"William Spears," he said, without a moment of hesitation. Harrison had to resist the urge to smack his hand repeatedly against his forehead. William T Spears was going to murder Harrison if he ever found out Undertaker had used his name as a cover. He was supposed to be keeping him on a tight leash.

"Splendid then. Mr Phipps and Mr Spears."

Dumbledore pushed open one of the giant doors and ushered them inside.

"I've informed the rest of the staff that there will be a staff meeting this afternoon, where I shall introduce the two of you. For the time being, I've set up two of the guest rooms for you in a lesser used wing of the castle. You can leave your things there and get settled in before the meeting."

"Sounds good," Harrison responded automatically, but he was paying more attention to the castle interior. With only a handful of people in the castle, he could theoretically use their life signs to navigate, but once all the students arrived it would be impossible. And the castle looked like a veritable labyrinth. He was just thankful he wasn't going to have to get anywhere on a schedule. He'd just get lost.

Dumbledore guided them to the second floor, and through a mess of corridors, before coming to a stop in front of a large painting. The painting moved, and consisted of a clearing in the middle of a forest, through which a soft breeze flowed, ruffling the leaves. Harrison blinked, and a centaur marched out of the trees to stand in the clearing, watching him. He opened his mouth to ask where it came from, but closed it again before any sound could escape, eyeing Dumbledore sideways.

"This is Rourke. He's the guardian of this suite of rooms. If you give him a password he can set it for the duration of your stay."

Undertaker rapped on the frame with his knuckles. Rourke glared at him.

"Rourke, the password is going to be 'Wolfsschlucht'."

Undertaker's lip twitched. Dumbledore mouthed the foreign word with a frown, wholly unable to mimic the accented pronunciation of the word Harrison had offered to the guardian. That was good. The stranger the word, the less likely Dumbledore would easily be able to snoop – if he were so inclined – without ordering the guardian portrait around.

The centaur bowed its head in acceptance and stamped its front hoof on the ground twice. Two splits formed in the stone wall, branching up from the floor on either side of the painting. When the splits joined above the painting, the wall sunk back, and shifted, revealing a doorway.

Harrison clenched his jaw, adamant not to show any sort of surprise.

"I hope you will find the rooms adequate for your stay."

Undertaker took that as an invitation, and swept into the room first, Harrison following behind. They exited the little entryway into a living area, with a couch and armchair and a low table in front of a fireplace. Three doors led out of the room. Two proved to be bedrooms, and the third, a bathroom.

Harrison dropped his bag on the couch, while Undertaker stowed his scythe in the closet in one of the bedrooms. Harrison hadn't bothered modifying a scythe – his was standard issue, collapsible, easy to transport.

"I'm sure they'll do just fine." Harrison checked his watch. "When is the staff meeting?"

"I'll come and collect you in two hours, if that's fine with you."

"Sure."

Harrison not-subtly-at-all shepherded Dumbledore out of the room and watched the door close behind him.

He sighed dramatically. "Oh he's finally gone."

Undertaker slunk out of the bedroom and Harrison remembered that he was frustrated with him.

"You're going to get me in trouble you know," he complained. "If William ever finds out you've been using his name…" He ran his thumb across his neck and pulled a face.

Undertaker ignored him.

"You've been feeling rather sentimental lately. The Queen's butler? Wolfsschlucht?"

"Oh come on, Wolfsschlucht is hardly sentimental. It's not like I ever went there."

They continued to bicker good-naturedly for most of the next two hours, each silently pondering how the staff meeting was going to go down.

**oOoOo**

They ended up waiting in the corridor for Dumbledore's return. Harrison was fascinated by the way the door so seamlessly merged back into the wall, and he'd wanted a chance to scrutinise it away from the headmaster's bright eyes.

When he arrived, Dumbledore didn't comment, simply motioning for them to follow him. Harrison had assumed the meeting might take place in Dumbledore's office, but instead they were lead back down to the ground level and into a ginormous room which Dumbledore told them was called the Great Hall. It was where all meals were served, but it was presently relatively empty, since the students were still a week away.

At the far end of the room, gathered around what Harrison assumed was the staff table, was a group of robed individuals. The teachers.

Dumbledore spread his arms and called out in greeting to the others as they approached the table.

Snape stood at the far end, glaring daggers at the Shinigami. Harrison waved his fingers at him, and Snape immediately looked elsewhere, unwilling to acknowledge him.

"Everyone, this is Harrison Phipps and William Spears. Mr Phipps will be helping Hagrid with looking after the grounds, while Mr Spears will assist Mr Filch with his duties as caretaker. They are only here temporarily, but I hope you'll make them welcome."

Harrison smiled hesitantly, trying to tone down his natural work instincts and dredge up what few appropriate social skills he'd actually learned over his lifetime.

There was an awkward stretch of silence, before an elderly woman in green robes stepped forward, introducing herself as Minerva McGonagall, professor of transfiguration. The others followed suit, greeting the two and introducing themselves and shaking hands. Harrison didn't pay them too much attention, other than to make a note of who was who. He was distracted.

There was an odd sensation, a strange presence. He couldn't determine where it was coming from.

At least, he couldn't, right up until the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirinus Quirrell, stepped forward and shook his hand. A sudden awareness flooded Harrison, chartreuse eyes widening in understanding.

He signed to Undertaker behind his back.

_Target partially located. Investigation needed. Unprecedented occurrence._

**Author's Note:** I'm ignoring the second half of season one and all of season two (more of a manga storyline fan myself, and you'll see a lot of small references to it), so have fun guessing what the earl's doing in 1991.


	6. Quirinus Quirrell Must Die

**Chapter Six – Quirinus Quirrell Must Die:**

"You shook his hand too, did you feel it?"

Sequestered away in their rooms after the brief staff meet and greet, Undertaker and Harrison sat around the low coffee table, having a strategy meeting.

"I did. There is more than one soul yet less than two inhabiting Quirrell's body. It was difficult to discern even that much, because all the ambient magic in this castle blurs my senses, and the innate magic Quirrell possesses further distorted my examination.

"More than one but less than two…" Harrison flipped restlessly through his notebook. Right then he would have liked his old soul retrieval list, which would usually make his life easier. But that was the whole reason they were there, investigating. Because Tom Riddle had defied death, and confused the records. "How much of his soul does Dispatch have?"

"The tiniest sliver. A portion of his soul that had somehow attached itself to your mortal body, which was retrieved upon your death. It was just barely enough soul to identify the owner."

Harrison shuddered. "Right, yeah, of course." The idea that another soul had intruded on his body while he was alive always set him on edge. It was intrusive, unnerving, and after spending nearly one hundred years dealing with soul collection the feeling only got worse.

"If we take that into account," Undertaker continued, resting his chin on folded hands, "then we likely wouldn't be able to tell that Riddle's soul was incomplete if that was the only portion of his soul that had been separated from the main body. Which means that Quirrell, whatever he's doing, whatever he's up to, he's not ferrying around Riddle's entire being."

"Which means there's more of him out there somewhere," Harrison finished, looking a little pale at the thought. "How the hell does a soul even get torn up like that? If he'd been, say, partially devoured by a demon, maybe then I could see it happening, but this has nothing to _do_ with demons. This is just… wizards. Wizards and their stupid magic that has limitations I don't understand or maybe no limitations at all."

His hands shook a little, as the reality suddenly sunk in. He'd never done anything like this before. Harrison twined his fingers together and held tight, trying to steady himself. Magic was over their heads. When this was over and done with, he was going to march straight up to HQ and Management and demand they create a division specifically for dealing with specialty cases like this, where they were equipped with whatever knowledge they could gather from cinematic records and from venturing out into the living world.

"This feels like the main soul, doesn't it?"

Undertaker nodded. In a rare move, he put his glasses on. He never wore them – back when he'd gone rogue it was because rogue Shinigami didn't wear their glasses, despite their genetic near-sightedness, and once he was put on probation and brought back into the department it was because he didn't like them – except in situations like this, that involved an excessive level of concentration and deep thought.

"It'll be nearly impossible to track down the rest of Riddle's soul pieces if we let this part get away. If we trap it," Administration – technically in charge of scythe modifications – had come up with a containment jar to hold onto Riddle's soul until they could deliver it to HQ, "then we can use it as a sort of homing beacon. So we have to be careful how we deal with Quirrell."

"So what, learn the grounds, learn his schedule, plan a confrontation?"

"That's the idea."

Harrison took a deep breath and nodded.

"Let's get started then."

**oOoOo**

The Welcoming Feast, just as Harrison had suspected, became a confused mess when the amassed students realised that Harry Potter – who the wizarding newspaper had been printing stories about for weeks in anticipation of his re-entry into the wizarding world – was nowhere to be found. The sorting finished – a spectacle that left Harrison pondering the source of the old hat's sentience (because while it could, he supposed, be magic, it felt more likely that it was a soul trapped in the fabric) – and when Professor McGonagall moved to put the hat away, the older years suddenly started whispering. It was as though she'd broken the suspense with her movement, and in seconds everyone was in on it.

Tilting his head, chin resting on his palm, Harrison could make out little strands of gossip. Missing. Dead. Secret training. Harry Potter had already completed his magical education as a child. Kidnapped. He'd been turned into this or that magical creature.

His shoulders shook with supressed laughter, but Harrison bit his tongue and attempted to keep a straight face. Children were hilarious. Undertaker had no restraint – Harrison could hear his low cackle over the waves of student voices. It made him glad they were at the end of the staff table, and that Mr Filch didn't eat with the rest of the staff. They'd drawn enough odd looks during the week leading up to September 1st, they didn't need to be seen taking delight in the confusion.

When Dumbledore rose to his feet, the entire hall fell into silence. It was a little disappointing actually, seeing how obedient they all were.

"To the new students, welcome. To all our returning students, welcome back. Before we delve into our meal, I have a couple of quick staff announcements to make. Professor Quirrell will be your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher this year, returning from an overseas sabbatical. I would also like to introduce Mr Spears, who will be assisting Mr Filch with his duties as caretaker, and Mr Phipps, who will assist the groundskeeper, Hagrid."

Harrison nodded in greeting at the mention of his alias, and Undertaker waved.

"With that out of the way, I think it's time we ate." Dumbledore clapped his hands, and food appeared on all of the long tables.

Harrison had had a week to get used to the phenomenon, so he managed to remain stoic at the sight, though several of the newly sorted first year students were openly gaping. For a moment, he amused himself by attempting to envision his eleven year old self sitting at one of those tables, gaping at the food and the people and trying to figure out what was going on. The sad part was he could even envision the little voice that would no doubt be screaming in the back of little Harry's head, about how surely this was some extravagant prank organised by his _family_ to make him feel accepted, only for them to tear it all away again.

He shoved a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth to cover his frown. No, he was glad Harry Potter had never made it here. Rife with insecurities, he wouldn't have survived, not under the pressure of what he was beginning to see was some serious hero worship just simmering away, waiting to be unleashed on their poor saviour. He more thankful now than ever that the timestream was so damn unstable.

In the end Harrison didn't eat very much during the feast – which he would later learn was more or less just a regular meal, because yes, they were all that massive – and Undertaker ate even less. Shinigami weren't exactly immune to human hunger, like demons were, but they certainly didn't need to stuff themselves like the children were doing. It was energy for their bodies to function off of, not something to gorge on.

It was a relief when Dumbledore finally called an end to the feast. Harrison had assumed that that would be that, but he was mistaken. A rush of notices and rules passed by, no doubt going completely over the heads of the tired and full teenagers. It seemed odd that the headmaster would leave things like forbidden objects until _after_ the feast, but perhaps he didn't really care about those rules either.

Then though, then came the really interesting announcement. An out-of-bounds corridor. Harrison rested his chin on his clasped fingers as he listened to Dumbledore talk.

This, this could be promising.

**oOoOo**

In between plotting and planning ways to bring about Quirrell's – and Riddle's – demise in the least suspicious manner possible, Harrison and Undertaker did actually have to take part in work according to their temporary roles.

On Harrison's end it was all pretty simple. He just spent some time patrolling the castle grounds, and every so often he checked the Forbidden Forest for students, and turned away anyone who seemed like they might be headed there.

Undertaker's role as caretaker required a tad more time, but Harrison was amused to note that he was really getting into it.

In just two short weeks the students of Hogwarts had developed a newfound appreciation for Argus Filch, when faced with the man who was his temporary assistant. Undertaker, clad in the dramatic robe-esque outfit Harrison had reluctantly given back to him for the duration of their stay in the castle, had taken to prowling the corridors at random times of the day. More often than not he was chuckling quietly to himself, an eerie sound to hear from around a corner, and he'd tap his black-painted nails on suits of armour as he passed by them.

Even though he never handed out detentions or took points, the students feared him more than anyone – some truly fearing him more than even the dour potions master Severus Snape. It was a common fear that one day Undertaker – Mr Spears – would simply snap. They weren't sure what would happen when he did, but they all assured each other it would be something bad. Terrifying even.

Undertaker didn't bother telling students off because that's not why he was wandering. His eccentric behaviour curbed student misbehaving in his vicinity, so he didn't even need to pretend to be doing his job. Instead, he spent his patrol time mapping out the entire castle. It was a ginormous job to undertake, but they needed to case out good spots for their inevitable showdown, and also try and find places Quirrell might frequent.

It was Undertaker who actually laid eyes on the out-of-bounds corridor, during his walks. He also stumbled across Quirrell muttering to himself in empty rooms from time to time. They were gathering intel. And they were getting closer.

**oOoOo**

The groundskeeper, Hagrid, turned out to be very loose-lipped to other staff members. Harrison only had to mention a passing curiosity about the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor for the large man to explain the whole thing. At least, the whole thing from his perspective. Dumbledore was safekeeping an old, powerful artefact, called a philosopher's stone. Harrison was reluctant to refer to it as safekeeping, since it was obvious – especially after some quick research on what exactly a philosopher's stone was – that this was what Dumbledore was using to lure Voldemort into the school. And it had definitely worked.

(The stone couldn't be allowed to remain in the wizarding world. It was unnatural. It went against the order of life and death. They would have to bring it back to HQ, and it very well might be destroyed.)

Tom Riddle was after alternate methods of immortality. Waiting for him to make the first move was beginning to sound extremely dangerous.

**oOoOo**

It was the beginning of October. Harrison and Undertaker were deep in the murky waters of planning now.

"His stutter makes me want to tear his tongue out," Harrison complained, spread out across the armchair in their living room, "but it's definitely faked. I suppose it's meant to act as a smokescreen, to make him out to be unassuming. All it does is make you want to avoid his company, but that works out pretty well for him in the end."

"He's unsociable," Undertaker confirmed.

"Very. He spends roughly 90% of his time outside of his classes on his own, and is rarely ever in the staff room. Despite appearances he has a reasonably high sense of spatial awareness, and can normally tell if he's being followed, except for in cases where he seems to be communicating with Riddle."

"The trap will need to be convincing and unobtrusive. There has to be minimal cause for suspicion."

"Of course."

Harrison bit his thumbnail. This whole thing was so much more complicated than all of his previous work. Humans have difficulty perceiving Shinigami, and all he needed to do was watch their cinematic record and stamp some paperwork. This was subterfuge and infiltration. It was a throwback to his teenage years, and his work in London's underworld. The difference here was that instead of being at risk of death, he was going out to kill.

"When's the next Hogsmeade weekend?" Harrison asked thoughtfully.

"The week before Halloween." Undertaker tapped his fingernails on the edge of the table, contemplating.

"That's the best time to do it then."

They lapsed into silence. If everything went to plan, they'd only have to be at Hogwarts for three more weeks.

Harrison couldn't wait to leave.

**oOoOo**

There was a particular room on the second floor that Quirrell frequented more than any other. Undertaker decided it was pretty close to the room at the end of the out-of-bounds corridor, and he might have been attempting to discern another way in to get at the stone.

As mere secondary staff, even with their special permissions and faux-employee status, Dumbledore had deemed it unnecessary to fill them in on what exactly was going on in regards to the stone's safekeeping. He hadn't even told them _what_ he was using to bait Voldemort. It was all very unhelpful, but Harrison found he didn't care overly much. It was a pain, having that gap in knowledge that Quirrell, as a professor, was no doubt aware of, but if that was the cost of keeping Dumbledore out of their way he was fine with being at a slight disadvantage.

After all, what was a little bit of knowledge in the face of unwavering death?

It was this room that they planned their ambush around.

And plan they did.

With the aid of some Shinigami deception, they'd planted several light suggestions that the Hogsmeade weekend would be a great time to do some real exploring and experimenting in that room. Since it was a thought he already harboured, the weak-willed professor went right along with it.

All they had to do was wait.

**oOoOo**

Harrison watched from the far corner as Quirrell wandered into the room. As soon as he was inside, the door slammed shut behind him. Undertaker had seen to that, and they'd wrangled some of the ghosts in to help as well, with the promise that they wouldn't force them along to the afterlife when they left the school.

Quirrell stared about the room in confusion.

Harrison stepped out from the deep shadows. "A little lost, Quirinus?" His fingers curled around his shrunken scythe in his pocket.

"I-I-I d-don't know w-what you m-m-mean," Quirrell stuttered, one hand creeping up to his dark purple turban.

"Let's pretend I believe that." Harrison's chartreuse eyes shone dark and foreboding behind his glasses, "But don't worry, I have no business with you." He smirked maliciously, lips curling up at the edges. "I'm here for Tom Riddle."


	7. The Mysteries of Death

**Chapter Seven – The Mysteries of Death:**

Quirinus Quirrell stared blankly across the room at Harrison.

"Who?" he asked, completely forgoing his faux stutter.

Harrison quirked an eyebrow, smirk slipping.

"Seriously?"

He paused, trying to come up with a good joke about that, but Quirrell suddenly shuddered, face screwed up in pain. A low, angry whisper emitted from about Quirrell's head. It wasn't loud enough for Harrison to make out the words, but Quirrell could apparently hear it perfectly well.

"Um…" Harrison was at a loss for words.

Quirrell was muttering to himself – to the voice, to, presumably, Voldemort – and clutching at his turban, falling to his knees on the cold stone floor. For the slightest moment Harrison had the ridiculous urge to rush over and help Quirrell, but he quickly squashed the errant thought.

If he concentrated, he could make out some of Quirrell's agonised mutterings.

"Master…" "No…" "I'm sorry…" "Never again…"

It was definitely Riddle. The question remained, however. Where was he?

Harrison pulled his scythe from his pocket and extended it, tapping the end on the ground. It was exactly the same as William's – standard issue, because he was too lazy to come up with some grand design – except sleeker, an updated version. And where William's had that scissoring clamp, Harrison's had a lethal blade. It was also entirely black, blade included.

"I'm not sure what's happening here," he jabbed Quirrell with the butt of his scythe, "but it ends now. I have business with Tom Riddle, and you are interfering." He saw Undertaker slip around behind Quirrell, but didn't acknowledge him, all attention on the pitiful mess of a man on the floor.

_"__Quirrell's not on the list," Undertaker said one evening, out of the blue._

_Harrison rolled his eyes and adjusted his glasses._

_"__Anyone who stands between Tom Riddle and death is automatically on the list."_

_"__Are those official instructions from Management?"_

_Harrison paused. Shinigami could lose their jobs for killing people who weren't on the list. He counted silently to five. This was worth it. He was supposed to deliver Riddle to death. Anything else was surely collateral damage._

_"__Yes."_

Quite suddenly, the whispering and muttering stopped. Quirrell lurched to his feet, like a puppet on a string. Slowly, as though with great reluctance, he reached back, and began to unwind his turban, the purple material falling to the floor.

Harrison felt himself go a little green. He'd seen death in all its many forms, seen mutilation and gore, the violence of one human against another, but he'd never seen such a Janus-like figure before, with two faces on one head. It was a perversion of the natural order. Voldemort was really racking those up.

Voldemort's face pulled at the skin on the back of Quirrell's head, bulbous and terrifying. No wonder he'd worn a turban. It had hidden the disfiguration quite well.

"You dare to seek me," hissed a dark voice issuing from that face, lips moving grotesquely under the skin, "speaking that filthy muggle name!"

That was disturbing.

Harrison shifted into a battle stance, flipping his scythe around so that in the blink of an eye the blade rested firmly against Quirrell's neck. Quirrell whimpered pathetically, while Voldemort snarled to the best of his ability.

"What is this insolence? You dare point a weapon at Lord Voldemort?!"

Quirrell fumbled for his wand, but Undertaker knocked it from his hands the moment he found it. The wooden stick clattered to the floor, and no one moved to retrieve it.

"You'll find I dare many things, _Riddle_." Harrison pushed a little harder, drawing a thin line of blood. "We're here to correct a mistake, you see? A mistake from ten years ago."

Quirrell's entire body froze as Voldemort's face contorted into a ferocious scowl.

"I am _immortal!_" Despite his words, his agitation was clear to see. "You cannot _kill_ me. It cannot be done."

"Yeah," Harrison agreed lightly, "So I've heard."

He took two steps to the left, keeping his blade firmly against Quirrell's skin, so that he could catch the professor's gaze.

"I'm sorry about this."

Quirrell quivered, but nodded his head a tiny fraction in acceptance.

Harrison moved, faster than was humanly possible, dragging the blade of his scythe from Quirrell's neck and plunging it through skin and bone, into his heart.

Time froze.

Harrison allowed a certain sadness to wash over him as Quirrell's cinematic record burst from his chest. He'd been a good man before he met Voldemort's spirit. Not a great man, but not a particularly bad one either. He'd simply been, well, human. A human with a weak will, who had succumbed to whispers of power he would never be able to attain. Part of Harrison wanted to rescind the judgment, let him live on, but he practical side knew that this was his punishment. Quirrell had allowed himself to be swayed by Voldemort, and now he was paying the price.

Still.

"Be at peace, Quirinus."

He yanked his scythe from Quirrell's chest, and time span back into motion, Quirrell's lifeless body hitting the stone floor with a thud.

Voldemort's shade shrieked and snarled and hissed, emerging from Quirrell's body in a haze of malicious energy.

Ghosts emerged from the walls. The Bloody Baron, the Grey Lady, Sir Nicholas, a strange girl by the name of Moaning Myrtle, and the poltergeist, Peeves. They formed a loose ring around Harrison, Undertaker, Quirrell's body, and Voldemort's shade. Ghosts could interact with other ghosts with far more ease than even a Shinigami could, and they would need the distraction. Voldemort could shoot straight through Harrison or Undertaker, but would have to find a way around the ghosts.

"Your time is coming to an end, Riddle," Harrison intoned, blood dripping from his scythe.

Voldemort rushed towards the ceiling, only to be intercepted by Myrtle, who seemed to have been overcome by a violent rage at the very sight of him. There was a story there somewhere, but Harrison cared naught for it.

Peeves darted about the room, causing an awful ruckus, but also a constant, ever-moving obstacle to Voldemort's escape.

Undertaker prepared the containment jar, and Harrison once more lashed out with his supernatural reflexes, slashing his scythe through the haze that made up Voldemort's shade. The scythe itself did no damage, but the motion forced Voldemort along with it, sending him back towards the ground.

The ghosts closed ranks, Undertaker and Harrison stepping in with them.

Voldemort was surrounded. The more Harrison prodded him with his scythe, the more disoriented the shade became. Undertaker scooped him into the jar before Voldemort had a chance to get his bearings back, his own supernatural speed honed for more than a thousand years. Harrison was no match for him.

"You cannot contain me!" came a warbled hiss from the jar, Voldemort's shade had regressed to a dark rumbling haze, banging against the sides of the jar. "I am Lord Voldemort!"

Harrison sighed, lowering the tip of his scythe to the ground. Talk about an ego.

"I think you'll find we can. And you're going to stay right there and help us find all those other pieces of your soul."

"_I will never reveal my secrets to worthless scum like you!_"

Harrison "hmmed" tiredly and rubbed his forehead. Undertaker fiddled with the jar until he found a switch, shrinking it – and Voldemort along with it – to roughly the size of a sickle. He then hung it on a long chain around his neck, and tucked it into his robes. Voldemort's screams of indignation went unacknowledged.

Harrison pulled a cloth from his pocket, and cleaned the blood off of his scythe. He didn't want it on his clothes, thank you very much, because it was difficult to get out. When it was clean, he shrunk it and put it away with a sigh.

"He's not going to be cooperative," he muttered. "This is going to be a long hunt."

The sound of rattling chains brought his attention back to the assembled ghosts.

"You are going to keep your promise, aren't you?" Sir Nicholas asked hesitantly. The others murmured their agreement. Only the Fat Friar had refused his offer, feeling his time had come. He'd sent his soul off earlier in the day, hoping to be gone before anyone had a chance to notice the ghost's absence.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. It's too much admin dealing with ghosts as old as you lot anyway. Just be wary. There are other Shinigami out there who stick to the rules far more than I do."

"Of course, thank you for your generosity."

The ghosts all floated away, after sharing a long, wary look with one another. They had, after all, just been involved in a murder, so to speak.

"Undertaker."

"Yes?"

"What do we do now?"

"Leave."

Harrison scoffed. "Well obviously. We have a job to do. But what about… this." He waved his hand in front of him gesturing at Quirrell and the blood splatters.

"I…" He let out a slow breath, and counted to ten. "Fine. Let's go then."

They swept from the room, heading for a lesser-used staircase on the third floor that led straight to the entrance hall. There was no point heading back to their rooms. All that remained in there was clothing, and that was easily replaceable.

As they reached the bottom of the staircase a scream echoed from above them. A student had stumbled across Quirrell's corpse. Harrison hastened his steps, and any wandering students gave them a wide berth when they spotted Undertaker's scythe strapped to his back. No one asked why they weren't heading upstairs to investigate the scream.

Harrison guided them directly towards the Forbidden Forest. They were going to steal some thestrals. No one would care.

What neither of them expected was the figure waiting for them in the thestral enclosure.

**oOoOo**

Harrison stopped short, eyes wide and confused behind his glasses.

"_Michaelis!?_"

Standing before them, somehow managing not to look out of place at all in his elegantly tailored three piece suit, even in the middle of the forest, was Ciel Phantomhive's demon butler, Sebastian Michaelis.

"How did you get in here?" Harrison asked, endlessly curious.

"I held no ill will against anyone inside the magical barriers, so it was simple enough to force them open."

Undertaker snickered. On a normal day Sebastian had plenty of ill will against Undertaker, for all the shit he'd put Ciel through back in the day. But Sebastian looked serious, more so than he normally did whenever they crossed paths. It was a deadly serious look, and his hands were clasped behind his back.

He looked almost… pained. Worried.

There was only one thing he could be worried about.

"What's happened to Ciel?"

If anything, the grim look intensified.

"He's been _taken_." Sebastian's lips curled in disgust as he spat the last word. "_Again._ By some crazed magic users. Proper ones this time."

Harrison shuddered, remembering the last time Ciel had been taken.

Harrison wasn't as completely in the dark about magic as he had originally let on. It had, after all, played a large part in his death. That talk of a carriage crash may just so happen to have been a lie, concocted on the spur of the moment; a believable end to the life of a spy, a life filled with subterfuge and deception – the life he'd implied Harry had possessed. A life that he _had_ possessed, but with far more danger than he'd let on.

As a matter of fact, it was all through his association with the young Earl Phantomhive that magic was ever introduced to his life. His freakishness from childhood had mostly been forgotten, save his disappearing act that Undertaker made him hone – but at eleven, at twelve, he hadn't connected the two instances; it wasn't until he was introduced to demons, and then to magic itself, that he realised.

It was also due to the Earl that Harrison found his early end.

Ciel had been kidnapped by a bit of a wannabe magical cult, not long after his eighteenth birthday. They hadn't been proper wizards, but boy they'd had something on their side. Sebastian had had some serious trouble getting into the building, and had enlisted their help, hoping Harrison's unique skills might be of some use.

Needless to say, his contribution hadn't amounted to much.

He didn't blame Ciel for his death though. He came willingly enough, hoping to help a friend in need.

The eighteen year old Earl hadn't gotten off much better than Harrison did, in the end.

One dead, one cursed to live forever.

At least the company was good. Not many people could lay claim to immortality after all.

If that much had gone wrong when they were dealing with petty dabblers, Harrison could only imagine what might happen with actual wizards. They were dangerous, ridiculously so.

If it wasn't a random kidnapping, they could only be after one thing.

His immortality.

"How did they find you?"

"Wrong place wrong time. We were passing through a small village when they decided to attack. It was a massacre. I was too slow to protect my lord from harm, and he was hit by the same thing that had killed the villagers. Obviously, it didn't kill him."

Harrison frowned darkly, worrying his lip. Were these some of Voldemort's old lackeys? Searching for the secrets of immortality? Or were they simply some rogue dark wizards, killing muggles for fun, and wanting to find out how to kill the unkillable.

He spun on his heel, racing over to Undertaker and tugging the chain out from his many layers. Harrison held the containment jar up to his face and shook it, violently.

He hissed at the jar. "_What. Did. You. Do?_"

Voldemort laughed, an awful, rasping cackle.

"I'll tell you. And then you can watch your friend be ripped to pieces."

Before Harrison could react, Sebastian was in his face, having snatched the jar from his fingers.

"Do _not_ test me, ghost." Sebastian warned, teeth just a little too sharp, eyes glowing vibrant, demonic red.

Sebastian and Ciel's deal had shifted beyond fucked up after the immortality thing. Ciel was supposed to give Sebastian his soul, but now he couldn't die. Sebastian was bound to serve him until his revenge was completed, upon which he would receive his soul, but now he couldn't have it. There was a loophole in there – Harrison was sure Sebastian could have abandoned Ciel to the world once his vengeance was dealt with, but he'd stubbornly stayed at Ciel's side, continuing to serve him.

"Calm yourself, demon." Undertaker nudged Sebastian with his scythe in warning.

"Sorry Sebastian," Harrison added quietly, prying the jar from Sebastian's hand, "but we need this malicious bastard. Although…" He hummed thoughtfully, staring at Voldemort's haze. "Once we find the rest of his soul, well, I wouldn't be totally adverse to a certain demon perhaps… consuming it. He'd still be dead and, well, that's one bit of paperwork I wouldn't mind having to deal with."

Sebastian bared his teeth in the most malevolent grin he had ever seen on the demon's face.

"If he has something to do with this… I'll look forward to it."

Harrison nodded, and turned back to the jar.

"Tell me. Now."

Voldemort was silent for a long moment. Until Harrison shook the jar again. The haze flared in agitation, and Voldemort hissed at him.

"I had Quirrell seek out some of my more influential, creative death eaters, and told them to look into immortality. Though I didn't reveal myself. That would have been foolish. They believe it to be some sort of clue, a hint towards my survival. They don't know of this horrid state I've been reduced to – that I would have _evolved from_, if you hadn't interfered!"

Voldemort's rage built up, visibly, the inside of the jar filling entirely with black smoke. Harrison huffed in disgust, and left the jar in Undertaker's care once again.

"Does that help any?" Sebastian demanded.

Harrison looked over at Undertaker and shrugged.

"Only one way to find out."


	8. Pathways to Immortality, Part One

**Guest reviewer Isali: I despise genderbending stories, so you're never going to get what you want from me. Sometimes, the only way to get the story you want to read is by writing it yourself. Think about that. Or go bother someone who's actually written genderbend stories before.**

**Anyway. Wow. Total demotivation. This story is… shwoom. Brain dead. I dunno. I'm going to finish it, don't worry, so I guess I'm glad this was never intended to be a particularly long story. Just, the quality might be lacking.**

**I've cut what I'd intended for this chapter in half, because it was fighting against me a lot, and I wanted to have ****_something_**** to upload.**

**Chapter Eight – Pathways to Immortality, Part One:**

Harrison tugged at his hair and adjusted his glasses. This whole thing had become a right mess in nearly no time at all.

He glanced behind them, squinting as though he could see through the dense layers of trees to the castle.

"We'd have needed to test the tracker anyway, but we can't do it here. Not on castle grounds. Dumbledore will know it was us, and he'll come after us. We have to be away from here." Harrison walked over to the enclosure, coaxing some of the thestrals over to the fence. They were beautiful creatures, walking such a thin line between life and death. Over their two months at the castle Harrison had spent long hours watching them, but now was no time for sentiment.

"I am _not_ getting on one of those." Sebastian sneered, disdain clear. He kept several feet back, torn between the need for haste and a personal need for decorum. "Where are you headed? I'll meet you there."

"Fine, fine, we don't have time for this. Undertaker." Harrison gestured pointedly at one of the thestrals, and Undertaker obliged the demand with a flourish and a mocking bow. "Three miles that way, past the village and out of sight."

"Alright then."

Sebastian vanished, demonic reflexes kicking into gear as he sped off towards their meeting place.

"Show off," Harrison muttered. He leapt the fence and approached one of the thestrals, rubbing his hand down its skeletal neck.

Undertaker was already mounted. For once he was wasting no time dawdling. Harrison quickly followed suit, not to be outdone by the man he was in charge of.

This was serious business now. Even more than the original go at Riddle, barely half an hour past. It was go time.

**oOoOo**

It barely took any time at all to arrive at the clearing Harrison had indicated, flying through the sky on their skeletal steeds. Sebastian was, predictably, awaiting them when they landed. There was no beating the speed of a demon.

They landed to more looks of barely veiled disdain, and dismounted without a fuss, allowing the thestrals to fly back towards the Forbidden Forest. Keeping them would have been nice, but Harrison knew better than to try and keep something that belonged to those wizards. Especially at a time like this. It would draw too much attention. Not the best way to enact an investigation.

Sebastian tapped his foot in clear agitation. Harrison was well aware that the demon despised having to ask for help, especially from Shinigami. Add in all the rest of the factors this time around, and it was no wonder Sebastian was so on edge.

"Okay then." Harrison took a deep breath, and rolled his shoulders. "I guess it's time to test this tracker."

Undertaker produced two smooth, black stones, and took off Voldemort's jar, enlarging it slightly. Harrison took the base of the jar and cupped it in his hands, maintaining a connection with the soul they were using to track. Inside the jar, Voldemort's soul was oddly docile, a cloudy haze filling the bottom half.

"Do you know what to do?"

"Close my eyes and hope it works?"

Sebastian clenched his jaw, clearly unpleased. Undertaker chuckled, shrugging his shoulders helplessly and positioning the stones within his grasp.

"Or hope your head doesn't explode. Untested, right?"

Harrison, who had been preparing to close his eyes, glared sharply at Undertaker. That sort of thing _would_ kill him, Shinigami or no, and he hadn't even considered the possibility until just then.

"It won't," he retorted, trying to make his mild confidence in Admin sound like absolute certainty. His fingers tightened their grip on the glass, and he closed his eyes. Two deep breaths followed, before he nodded, planting his feet more firmly on the grass.

Undertaker stepped forward, and placed the stones against the jar, one on either side, directly across from one another. An almost magnetic force immediately gripped them in place, a tension beneath Undertaker's fingertips. Voldemort's soul glowed russet, swirling and raging, trapped between the foreign energies. The stones themselves glowed bright white, with a blinding intensity.

Harrison's body froze, his arms rigid, fingers pale against the jar. Sebastian could see nothing, but to Undertaker, that white light was also leaking from beneath Harrison's closed eyelids.

Harrison groaned, head spinning as he was tugged in five directions at once. That blasted tracker that those R&amp;D nuts in the Admin Division whipped together was awful. He'd been hoping for some sort of mapping mechanism, something visible, not this godforsaken _draw._ It was like a freaking divining rod, like following a rope through thick fog. He couldn't see where he was going, but even worse, he didn't know where he was meant to go _to_.

His heart beat raggedly, painfully, in his chest. His knees quivered. His brain could barely process past _Five_ and _different places_. Everything hurt.

Undertaker pulled the stones apart immediately, the violent glow receding until they appeared as nothing more than smooth onyx once more. The tugging sensations took a while longer to fade away. Once the jar was taken from him, Harrison held a hand to his head, trying to decipher them as the intensity dulled.

The strongest ran behind him, back in the direction of the school. It clanged loudly in his head, clamouring for attention, shaking and screaming. Instinctively, Harrison knew that meant it was close. He'd even wager, given his horrid luck, that it was _back in the castle._ Just where he couldn't go. Not now.

"This isn't going to work," Harrison conceded. He dutifully ignored the barely refrained impatience Sebastian was constantly emitting. "I can't do this without a map. I need to go back to HQ and get help from Management."

"To use the soul map?"

"That's the plan."

Sebastian cleared his throat, eyes glowing red as he glared at them.

"Is this necessary? You're wasting time."

Harrison gestured for Undertaker to hand him the stones and Voldemort's jar.

"Listen. Riddle over here might be a pretty nasty guy, but do you know what he is? A gloater. So I believe him when he says Ciel is with some of his minions. And if they're some of his most trusted minions, they also may have been, unknowingly, entrusted with a piece of this guy's soul. So tracking them down will give us five definite locations to search. And the sooner I discern those locations, the sooner we can investigate them."

Sebastian's lips tightened around his fanged teeth. He was _not_ happy, and it showed.

"With haste, then. Time is of the essence."

Harrison shuddered, echoing an agreement. Ciel was unable to die, but being killed and brought back to life?_ That_ was _horrendously_ painful. The only reason Ciel wasn't on the Shinigami's black list like Riddle was that this immortality shtick hadn't been through his own doing.

"I'll be back as soon as possible. Hopefully my 'do whatever it takes to collect his soul' clearance includes misuse of the soul map."

Harrison tucked everything into his pockets, keeping the stones separate.

Shinigami headquarters didn't exist anywhere in particular. It was everywhere and nowhere. It resided on a different plane of existence. One that could only be accessed by certain beings. Sebastian could go there, if he truly wanted to, but he'd be detained immediately.

Harrison reached out with his scythe, touching the blade to a certain point in the air in front of him. Harrison liked visualising the tear in reality when he moved from place to place. It helped him concentrate. He ran the blade down in a straight line, envisioning the world splitting in its wake. The air shimmered, the straight line from his scythe hazing and spreading out. The world beyond that point disappeared, blocked from supernatural sight by the appearance of a grandiose set of double doors.

Harrison entered the grand doors without hesitation, leaving behind the bleary Scottish countryside for the cavernous halls of Shinigami HQ, the United Kingdom Branch.

No one gave his entrance a second glance. Shinigami came and went in that manner all the time – it was the fastest and most convenient way back to HQ. Harrison stayed put for several long moments, soaking in the hustle and bustle of the place he mostly called home.

As Undertaker had guessed, Harrison was off to attempt to access the Soul Map. It was what Personnel and Management used to sort out where Dispatch members should be sent out, and what they should be on the lookout for. Generally speaking, they were also the only Shinigami allowed to view the map. Harrison was hoping to be the exception.

He sauntered over to the counter, baring his scarred forearms and loosening his shirt-collar as he went. Behind the counter was a rather stern looking lady, one Harrison didn't recognise (there were lots of Shinigami he didn't recognise – he didn't even know everyone else in Dispatch), but he didn't let that deter him.

Harrison rested both elbows on the edge of the counter, and sat his chin atop folded hands. The woman gave him a bland stare. He didn't let it discourage him.

"There's absolutely no chance I'd be allowed in to see the Soul Map is there." Harrison didn't even phrase it as a question. He left it as a statement, uttered with a tired smile. Asking to go inside was the fastest way to be denied.

"You would be correct," she confirmed, a frown pinching her lips.

Harrison waved away any questions she might have with a lazy motion of fingers. He dug the stones out of his pockets and placed them on the counter, ensuring they weren't touching.

"These are…?"

"Stuff from R&amp;D." He removed Voldemort's containment jar and placed that on the counter as well. That really got her attention.

"What the _hell_ is that?!"

"A soul. Well, part of one. That's the thing, see. I need to find out where the rest of it is."

She stared at the jar, them up at his face, then at his wrists, a contemplative scowl replacing the frown she gave to people wasting her time.

"I see," she said finally.

Harrison didn't say a word. She'd recognised him now. That was all he needed, really.

"I'll see what can be done."

She gathered everything up and left the counter, pulling the shutter down in his face.

Harrison sighed. Dealing with admin people gave him a headache.

He put his back to the counter and rested on his elbows. He'd likely be there for a while.

**oOoOo**

When she eventually returned, two more Shinigami followed in her wake. One was a nameless nobody, but the other – Harrison stood up straight, quickly rolling his sleeves back down and attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in his suit jacket – was William Spears.

"There were five," she said without preamble, shoving a piece of paper into Harrison's fumbling hands. "The locations are as listed. Your supervisor bade me tell you to be quick – he may not be so eager to attend to the map a second time."

Harrison nodded quietly, and she slipped back behind the counter after handing Voldemort back. He turned to the two Shinigami, uncomfortable from the sudden attention. He greeted William with a nod and a mumbled "Mr Spears," and more or less ignored the other.

He unravelled the paper and scanned it quickly. Just as he'd suspected, one was somewhere within Hogwarts Grounds. The others were less familiar. Little Hangleton? Nocturne Alley?

Malfoy Manor. There was a brat at Hogwarts called Malfoy. Slytherin.

He handed out assignments. William was to investigate Nocturne Alley (it was far too dangerous for Harrison's personal health to send William to Hogwarts, no matter how much he wanted to), while the other, whose name turned out to be Arthur, took the Hogwarts gig. Harrison, Undertaker and Sebastian would check out Malfoy Manor.

They would regroup after that, and go after the final pieces.

They had goals now. That was something.

It was time to find Ciel.


End file.
